


The Flower of Evil

by Athenova



Series: Beyond the Aegean [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred is an asshole, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bad Ending, Blood and Violence, Greek Civil War, Heracles gets no happy ending, Historical Hetalia, Historical Inaccuracy, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I once again regret everything, I tried to stay within historical events though, Junta of 1967, M/M, One Shot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, This I do not regret, not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28796853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenova/pseuds/Athenova
Summary: Heracles liked to view himself as a man of faith. But like how the Snake deceived Eve to eating the apple, Heracles was deceived to take up arms again.With nothing left on him but blood on his hands, Heracles laid his head on his Eden, nearing the Flower of Evil.Sequel to He, Who Defies the Kings.
Relationships: Greece/Serbia (Hetalia)
Series: Beyond the Aegean [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944514
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	1. The Land of Night

Sometimes, Heracles dreams within the night.

  
Describing his semi-conscious visions would be to tell a painful story. To slash open old wounds and douse them in salt, before wrapping them hastily, letting the blood run down his spine as regrets climb up their way to the back of his neck.

  
  


Other times, Heracles descends within a steep black abyss, no pit to be seen in the shadows devouring him. He soon discovered these times were when he slept the deepest, like the dead, as Iakovos eloquently put it. No memories, no dreams haunting the cavities of a broken soul.

He wished it stayed like this.

How long was it since he had a good night’s dream? When he was neither lost in endless darkness, nor strangled by regrets untold and promises shattered?  
Too long. Heracles doesn’t sleep at night any longer. Or at least, not how he used to. He stays until the first light of the dawn gently strokes his hair, urging him to nap the remaining 3 hours of the night.  
  


Nowadays, his nights are lonely. He remembers a time where they weren’t.  
A time where at 3 am, his house would bustle still. Simpler times. The Balkan League would gather there, drinking their heads off as laughter would taunt their neighbours’ ears. But they didn’t care.

A time where at 3 am, his house, dipped in darkness and windows sealed, for fear of the intruder, still felt alive in the small living room. Golden eyes would gaze tenderly at his figure, scarred fingers laced with his own rough ones.  
He would exhale a sigh of relief. Heracles would grin at him, shoot a snarky remark about the other man and chuckle to himself.  
  
The man in question would snort in amusement, as he would murmur something in his own language, before leaning in closer…

And closer…

And closer…..

And closer…. Until his lips meet Heracles’, velvet touching gently on silk, his fingers pushing Heracles' chin up to get a better, greedy angle on his lips.

  
  
  


Gone were these days. Heracles looks out of his window. Darkness froze solid in the country. Time is irrelevant, pointless when you’ve lived so long. Even the moonlight, once comforting, feels as if someone is pointing a finger at Heracles.  
Perhaps it’s the one who brought him in the land of permanent night. The man on the moon who spares him a glance every once in a while.  
  
Heracles looks in the ground. Stray leaves, fallen from their trees, blown away by a freezing breeze. Perfect time for a walk.  
He grabs a coat from his crumbling closet, lazily puts it on, checking the pockets for change. He found nothing but a full pack of cigarettes. Just what he needed.  
  
He knew he shouldn’t be out at such an hour. But he was never the one to obey the kings. Even his own.  
With nothing else but the keys of his house and the pack of cigarettes on hand, Heracles opens the door to the country of night, and leaves behind his house, doused in black.

  
  
  
  
  
  


He walks roads devoid of life.

Wind of the dead blows to his face, Heracles ignores it. His long cross feels heavier than before. Even at his shoulder, it feels as if he’s carrying the mountain itself.

“Perhaps it’s God’s way to tell me to stop,” He whispers to himself, hoping the wind won’t carry his voice to any nosy officer nearby. “It’s the hour of the devil after all.”  
  


His wrist watch was frozen. 3 AM. He reached his destination. The train station. He throws himself on a bench and leans on its back, exposing his neck to the skies and moon above. His cross is placed carefully next to him.  
The moonlight feels taunting again. The man on the moon is bored today.

  
  
He raises his head, eyes focused on a blighted sky, swiping a lighter and a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it. The cigarette’s fire burns as if a higher existence approved it. As if it manifested in the fire.

Heracles sipped on the cigarette, with the greed of a starving man, letting the poison seep deep within him, fire flowing down his veins; The ashes will tell his tale.

* * *

_December 24, 1947  
_ _Konitsa, Epirus, Greece_

  
  
  
  
  


Heracles tugged on his coat, seeking warmth from the rags he wore. Christmas Eve away from home, deployed near the Albanian border. 

The haze induced by night and snow reduced a man’s vision, but not a nation’s. If he stood on his tiptoes, from the steady ground he was at, he’d probably be able to make out a village beyond the border and in Albanian territory.  
The Kingdom’s army marches around him, minding the rocky ground beneath their boots. A fellow soldier urges him to move, rifle hanging on his back from a leather strap on his chest.  
  
  
Heracles wordlessly nods, following his army. His King was direct to him with his orders: As the country’s personification, you are to follow the army wherever it goes. Heracles bowed his head, submitting himself to the King’s wishes.  
A defiant spirit he was, but he saw no reason to rebel this time. Rose and her Prime Minister were kind enough to assist him in his battles against the straw-haired invader from the North; He still didn’t dare whisper his human name. The least he could do to thank her was to submit.  
  
  
“ _ **Move**_ , men of Hellas!” The commander screeched in the snowstorm, and his voice rang on the area like one of the Lord’s Trumpets. Heracles shivered. “Konitsa is just beneath our feet! With their support, we’ll crush these communists like dust!”  
  
  
Communists. The other side, the opposing faction. Heracles bowed his head and kept silent, in contrast with the rest of the battalion who cheered the commander on. His hair was damp and muddied from the many hours exposed in snow and ice. His fingers trembled, not by cold but by fury.  
  


A human was impressionable. Easily manipulated. Easily falling for demagogues seeking their own pleasure amidst a storm.   
A nation had lived a million lifetimes. Their eyes have seen death and life struggle for dominance. They’ve seen deception and murder, repeat over and over in the wheel of history.

Nations see no “ _right_ ” or “ _left_ ”. Nations see their people. Their children. Separate themselves for nothing but an ideology. Nations believe in these ideas and sometimes pushed them to become what they are today. 

But Heracles could see no difference on a Greek monarchist, to a Greek leftist. They were both his children. Both his people.

All this time Heracles was murdering his own people. Burning his own land. Exiling his own poets, authors, musicians, intellectuals. All for the sake of concepts such as ideologies.

Who was he to judge who will be torn from his home? No one, just a personification. Who were the humans to judge? Nobodies, either.  
There’s no such thing as justice, Heracles tells himself. If there was, he’d have met her himself.  
  
In reality, he did not differ from a mere person. In fact, no nation differed from its people. They too were people; Just immortal, for as long as they existed. And if the side Heracles bowed to was greedy, then _he was too._

  
  
  
  
  


The people of Konitsa fly into a frenzy upon seeing them. Liberators, they called the Army. Men, women and children cry a song vaguely patriotic to Heracles’ ears, and he cannot help but smirk.

The snow drowns out the commander’s voice, leaving only the wild crowd’s cheers and yells to be heard. Heracles couldn’t care less. He wanted to be home. It’s _fucking_ Christmas Eve.  
  
The night closed in around them, and Heracles withdrew in the barracks, his eyes pinned on the Bible he brought with him. Hoping the holy words will bring him absolution. Will cleanse him of sins.

* * *

_17 January 1948 ,  
_ _Athens, Greece_

  
  
  
  
  


There was an odd warmth in Athens.  
In the dead of winter, Athens would be -- and is -- freezing. But after what Heracles witnessed in Epirus, he much preferred the city built between hills. At least his home had running water and much needed privacy.  
He needed to wash himself, at least his body, as the soul, sunken in blood and corruption, the Devil’s poisons, could no longer be cleansed.  
  
  
As much as Heracles pretended he could cleanse it. He knew it, deep within him.  
What church would accept him? What priest would listen to his confession? He’s tainted to the core with the endless rain of blood he gleefully partakes in. 

  
  
The return to Athens brought him these thoughts. He planned on entering his home, as cold as it was, taking a long shower and then pretending he’s dead for a couple of days. If he’s dead inside, the exterior should match.  
Crumble on the bed, grasping the bedsheets, fingers tangled in between sheets and blankets, staring at the void space next to him with the eyes of a ghost.

His house belongs now to the kingdom of silence. Not only did it belong, but Heracles was sure that it was now the castle of the capital of said kingdom. And he was king. King of silence.

Even as a king, how did it matter? Nothing could soothe the visions of his deeds in the mountains. Shattering metal, screams, pleads and begs from his own people.  
The crown weighs heavily on his head. If only he could share it with someone. He used the word someone as if he simply desired to connect with anyone, but in reality, Heracles sought solace from only one person.  
  
  
  
His laughter echoed in his ears, as if a fae was playing tricks on him. Golden eyes, dripping with a fire fitting a lover’s passion, searched for Heracles’ own.

Heracles choked on his own breath. He curled up against his pillow, forming a fetal position, indulging in these tricks of the brain, lulling him to sleep.  
When was the last time he saw Miroslav? The last time Mirko, — His Mirko — , touched him, pulled him against his muscular chest, resting his chin on Heracles’ messy dark hair, a silent assurance that everything will be okay?  
  
  
When was the last time Mirko kissed him goodbye? The last time he held his hand in darkness, prompting him to dump all his fears upon him?  
The night before, Ludwig withdrew his troops from Athens. Before he regains his independence from the blond devil. That was the last time these happened, all Heracles craved.  
  
He had disappeared from thin air. He was struggling for Yugoslavia’s freedom, but the Great War had ended 2 years ago, and Mirko was still gone.

  
  


He vaguely remembers his King mentioning his name in a meeting of the King and his higher officials — Heracles included —.

“ _Miroslav Nikolic_ ,” The King mused, putting extra effort in pronouncing the Serb’s name as accurately as possible. “Yugoslav officer. I command you to find what his role is. I fear he’s not as innocent as our allies assure us he is.”

Heracles felt his breath freeze in his throat on the sound of Miroslav’s name. If these officials went after Yugoslavia, or at least distrusted it enough to harm one of its personifications, that would lead to war.  
  
If he had Miroslav on the opposite side in the battlefield, he’d have to see these eyes of gold sharpen to eagle’s claws, eager to rip into his enemy. Miroslav did not make distinctions in his foes. He just made sure that in the battlefield, there would be only ashes and rivers of blood by the end of the commotion.  
Heracles wasn’t sure if he could handle shooting Miroslav. After the nights during the Second War, the thought of Miroslav betraying him never crossed his troubled mind again. Therefore, he would never think of even opposing him.

  
  
Heracles blocked out the rest of the meeting. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. Perhaps he merely fell asleep. Everything felt irrational to him. A badly written film, perhaps, one that he’d be able to stomach until the end, to leave the screening room with a growing sense of emptiness lurking beneath.

* * *

  
  
  


The King and Prime Minister were most pleased with the success of the Battle of Konitsa. They whispered about the personification of Albania helping the communists in the battle, with large artillery intended to decimate their opponents.  
  
  
“But alas,” Said the Minister, smiling large enough for Heracles to see the rift between Heaven and Hell inside. “The communists fell. To our men’s bravery, and of course, Miss Rose and Mister Alfred’s help.”  
  
  
“The next time we see them, it’s best we thank them.” The King mused, not bothered by the absurdity of the war at the least. “We could have had Karpusi killed in the war.” Poison rolled off the King’s tongue. 

Heracles’ heart pounded in his chest like a war drum.  
  
He wouldn’t be killed. He’s a personification, he cannot disappear unless everything Greek disintegrates. Guns would simply offer him a quick, temporary death. The disdain in the King’s tone sent shivers of the dead up Heracles’ spine. But he said nothing. He bowed his head down and nodded.  
  
  
Like the rest of meetings, many parts of the conversations felt nothing but a blur to him. The only thing his limp body could hear clearly was planning for another operation.  
_Operation Koronis_ , they called it. Again at the godforsaken mountains of Epirus.

_As if the cold and guilt **didn’t** bite Heracles deep enough in the bone. _


	2. The World of Night

_18 February 1952,  
_ _Athens, Greece_

  
  


The war was over. The country of Hellas, drowned in blood and impoverished to its very core, had finally found peace. With the people just glad for the war to be over, Heracles could finally hope to find the strength to recover.  
The last years had drawn a fiery streak across his soul, heart burnt and numbed. Ever since the expedition to Konitsa, 5 years ago, Heracles refused to enlist in the army any longer.  
Everywhere he went, he could see faces of the slain. Young men, their faces twisted in horrible expressions of fear and doom, their bodies crushed under the weight of what was once artillery. Adult men and women, lulled to eternal sleep by the government’s “peacemakers”.   
  


This was the work of the men he trusted to rule his land. Blood on their hands, their clothes, their smiles. Many times he’d walk by a village, just to see it dressed in black veils. Terrorists, of either side, would spill innocent blood on the streets, accusing the victims of being collaborators.

  
Brother shooting brother. Sister strangling sister. Parent stabbing child. Neighbour burning neighbour’s house. Greece was not a sanctuary for the broken and famished Greeks to return, to flourish, to rebuild what the past invaders had burnt. Greece was a slaughterhouse. A playground for the wicked and corrupt. A prison for those who oppose the dominant opinion, and the gallows for those who suggested alternative ideas.

Three years later, and the Land of Light, the Land beyond the Aegean, was drenched in blood. 

Heracles was shackled in the cold, black abyss. Faces contorted in horror, trembling hands reaching out for him surrounded him, rendering him immobile, his eyes gazing at the chaos he was subjected into.  
  
Sealed like Plato’s prisoner, Heracles’ thoughts would rampage in the cave he called home, and the restraints he called blankets. A strangling shadow of guilt, a demon sent to torture the King of Silence.

  
  
  


And then, three years ago, the Man in the Moon descended.  
With bright eyes, like the Sun out of the Cave, and an even brighter smile, the man seemed like an angel sent by God to save Heracles.  
Alfred F. Jones, truly the saviour of Europe. Like an all-loving deity, he spared money to the war-stricken ancient land’s residents. 

  
Heracles was no exception. And for once, he was excited to see another nation. Admittedly, ever since the Konitsa incident, he felt numb on the sight of another nation.  
  
Alfred himself looked quite pleased to meet Heracles, a fellow Allied Powers member in the Second Great War. They shook their hands, their leaders shook hands, they agreed on many things with such a natural tone, Heracles momentarily believed that he and Alfred were meant to be allies.

And there he was, 3 years later, clad in his military uniform, standing alongside Sadik, as Alfred welcomed the new members of NATO. Sadik smirked at him and congratulated the Greek man. Heracles could not tell if he was sarcastic or genuine. But it’s not like he cared. Now, he had allies. Whether trustworthy, allies were allies.

  
  
A lingering voice in the back of his head rang across his ears, as if demons whispered temptations in his ears. The temptations of Saint Antonius, he’d say.  
But no, they were no temptations. They were taunts, drawn from the blackest pits of his heart, where he had locked them in for the occasion.  
A reminder.

**_She’d_ ** _never forgive him for what he did.  
_ _And he’d_ **_never_ ** _admit it.  
_ _She’d get_ **_no_ ** _justice.  
_ _And_ **_no one_ ** _would know about his crimes._

* * *

_  
July 27, 1952,  
_ _Piraeus, Athens, Greece_

  
  


The promenade of Piraeus hadn’t gone unnoticed by Alfred for long, and soon, Alfred invited Heracles to “hang out”, by his words. Walk along the promenade, watch the ships leave the port against the raging sea.  
  
Heracles felt his skin crawl with suspicion. Hanging out with a superpower seemed like a good way to get ambushed. He’d lived long enough to witness such incidents, after all he wasn’t born yesterday. He prepared himself to reply negatively, feigning illness or sudden errands to be run.  
  
He spared a glance on his run-down home, and the isolation reigning.  
A wave of bitter loneliness burned on his skin, like saltwater on fresh wounds. The times where his house was full of friends and family flashed in his mind. Thunder on a dark night.  
He’d been locked away by choice for so long, he had almost forgotten the euphoric feeling of companionship.

  
After all, after such a demonstration of kindness, just by accepting Heracles’ request of joining NATO, Heracles felt as if he needed to repay the favour, somehow.  
Lucky for the American, it was summer.

It was a typical Greek summer evening the day they met, shades of blood orange and purple painted the surrounding sky. The Sun was gently waving goodbye to his realm, passing it to his mistress, the Moon. Soon enough, the stars will fall, Heracles noted. A gentle breeze will blow, giving temporary relief to the scorching heat of the day.  
A picturesque sight, drawn almost from the hands of the greatest Romantic artists of the time, or even God himself. 

  
Alfred spoke endlessly throughout the entire walk, his energy unbound, flowing out of his mouth like a wild river.  
Heracles didn’t mind it. A smile crept up his face steadily, and he even found himself chuckling at some of the American’s jokes.  
  
  
Nostalgia on the air. Perhaps there was hope for a better future. Recovery perhaps, the light would purge the ground. And from this, he will rebuild Greece. Make it his Eden. He will guard it with his life. He’ll even find a flaming sword, if he ever gets the chance to build it.  
From the blood shed on the ground, there will grow flowers of the most magnificent grandeur. And there, under the sweet spring sun, Heracles will lie his head near the flowers as he loses himself in peaceful sleep.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“What is the purpose of NATO?” Heracles stared at Alfred’s eyes as he uttered the question that had been itching at his mind for a while. 

  
Alfred tore his eyes from watching the sea waves and stared back at Heracles, offering him a confident smile.

“Simple! Our purpose is to ensure the freedom and security of all our members by both political and military means!” Alfred seemed so excited to talk about this alliance that it drew Heracles’ spirit in. He didn’t mean to, but talking to Alfred…. was distracting, oddly. The cheerful way he spoke, the optimism gleaming in his eyes like pure gold, it all drew Heracles in.

  
“So, it’s a lasting alliance.” Heracles spoke, a small smile gracing his face.

  
“Yeah! You join NATO, you get everyone as your ally. If someone out of the alliance tries bothering you, then we’re all to step in! Easy and a good way to show your heroism!” Alfred replied. The sun reflected on his eyes, making them gleam like blue suns on their own.

  
“How come you came up with the idea?” Heracles felt like a journalist. Perhaps his more curious side perked up. He didn’t mean to be nosy, he simply needed answers to questions that bothered him from day 1 of joining NATO.  
  
  
Alfred’s smile fell. The sun still reflected in his eyes, but there was no joy in these eyes any longer. No. Something far darker lurked beneath these reflections of the star. A growing emptiness, perhaps.

  
“You know, the hero's at a time of war now.” He replied plainly, no color tinting his voice. Alfred’s piercing gaze bored into Heracles’, sending shivers down his spine. There was something so intense in Alfred’s eyes and tone that all of Heracles’ bravery vanished before him, like an apparition.

  
“War…?”

  
“Me and the Soviets. Come on, you even started the entire thing.”

Heracles shrugged, feeling himself shrinking on the promenade. He felt numbness claim his insides, anxiety twisting his guts in an unbreakable knot. Like the classic tale of David and Goliath; He was David, Alfred was Goliath. But in this case, Heracles didn’t even have a slingshot.

  
  
“That means….?” He mustered after what he felt like was an uncomfortably long silence. “You’re raising an army?”

  
“Not exactly,” Alfred replied, some light returning to his eyes, his shoulders relaxing. “I’d say I’m searching for allies to defend me should a war with Russia break out. Since the Soviets already have built a wall around themselves, I guess that’s not happening soon.” Alfred chuckled to himself.

  
“I don’t think they will do a wise move if they decide to attack you, Alfred.” Heracles sighed, a fake smile twisting his face like a mirror’s reflection. He wanted to throw up. He had never felt words more fake than these leave his mouth.

Alfred’s eyes brought the light in the world again, his smile returning like a lost king reclaiming his crown. “Anyway, enough of the depressing political stuff!” He declared, clapping his hands together and taking in a deep breath, relishing in the salty wind of Greek seas. “I’m starving! Do you guys have any good restaurants around?”

* * *

_  
19 April 1967,  
_ _Athens, Greece_

  
  


The Iron Curtain, feared by all. The Overlord of Europe, Russia, had ordered the members of his “fan” club to isolate themselves from the rest of the world, not interact with the members of NATO.  
Heracles’ neighbour, Dimitar, had obeyed Russia’s wishes. _Not as if he had a choice, to begin with._ He reinforced the borders separating him, Sadik and Heracles with chains and barbed wire. An iron curtain to be marvelled, indeed.

  
This didn’t stop Sadik from coming over to Heracles’ border and bothering him, much to Heracles’ disappointment. Most of their conversations nowadays were as boring as they used to be. At least they both had secured their serenity. No fighting, no border drama, no nothing.

  
  
  
  


And this day, Heracles came to stand on the Iron Curtain. He was on a walk; he told his King. He needed to clear his head, abuzz and clouded with thoughts and melted desire.

The Man on the Moon, the Boss of Europe, was especially exhausting these days.  
Alfred claimed he was merely helping his fellow NATO members prosper. Heracles watched with glazed eyes as he witnessed Alfred, the overly enthusiastic teenager, caught in his own web of childish dreams, aid his organizations as they interfered with other countries. And he was no exception. But he was powerless to stop him.

Who was he, a small country ruined by the Great War, to stand up to perhaps the greatest power the world has ever seen? The self-designated hero? He was no one. He’d be demolished in an instant if he tried to stand up. And no one would mourn his destruction, not even his brothers. God forgive him.  
  
  
He had fought with his King and Prime Minister about this. He frowns as the men’s piercing gazes stabbed through his chest, suspicion shrouding their faces. Sly grins spread to their faces, eliciting a shudder from Heracles.  
  
  
“You speak as if Mr. Alfred is the Devil himself, Mr. Karpusi,” The King says, the sly smile never abandoning his face. He rubs his gloved hands together as the King’s smile falls like the Walls of Constantinople. “I do not take that you regret entering NATO?”

  
“Obviously not,” Heracles feebly attempts to defend himself against the collective rage of the Greek top class, tired of Heracles’ odd, rebellious behaviour. “Do you take me as a man of such regrets?”

  
“You know, Mr. Karpusi,” The Prime Minister pipes in, lighting a cigar as thick as a man’s wrist and lighting it up. “I’m starting to believe that you regret fighting for your nation all this time.”

Heracles feels every nerve in his body burn with hatred. An unnatural, black, rotting sensation that would normally send a nation in a battle rage. His land and people were the only thing that mattered to Heracles. He lived for them, their existence equals his own, he breathes for them and they breathe for him. The blood he shed, he shed it all for his people. Hoping to keep them safe from the Judgement.  
And now this human, this ungrateful being, has the guts to call him a coward and a traitor to his face. His own nation!  
  


Heracles bites his lip, his fist tightens, attempting to hold himself back. 

“Calm down, **_calm down_**.” His mind fruitlessly tries to convince him. A broken record playing on a rusted pickup. With the corner of his eyes, he notices his knuckles have gone snow white. He doesn’t care.

  
Had it been Miroslav instead of himself, it’d be a bloodbath. Mirko was proud of his nation, the wars he fought, the heart he put into keeping his people satisfied and happy. He suffered more than any person. Mirko would pull out his revolver and explode with a rage that would make even the strongest of demons cower in fear. A demon slayer of the best kind.  
  
Heracles smirked at the thought. A dying wish; to be as fearless as Mirko.

He says nothing. He closes his eyes, turns on the heel of his flat shoes and leaves the room, with the looming sense of rage boiling deep within him.

  
  
  
  
  


And there he was now. Standing in front of the wall, his neighbour set up, with his brown coat hanging lifelessly from his shoulders. The wind blew and blew, like music to his ears. God, it’s so serene. He blocked out the thought of Sadik rushing to the border just to annoy him. He needs something positive. God gives strength, power, and luck to those who are patient. Job is the perfect example of this.  
And Heracles had been patient, longing and hurting for too long. He needs answers and needs them now.

  
Where the _hell_ had Miroslav gone? Judging by the fact Dimitar and he are both in the Eastern bloc, if anyone Dimitar should know of Mirko’s location.

“Dimitar!”

His voice echoes, carried by the wind like music of the heart. The lack of response slices into Heracles’ soul like a Roman soldier’s lance.

“Dimitar!”

No response. Heracles’ voice and veins tremble on the weak human body. Dimitar would normally be nearby, snacking on yoghurt or picking some roses from the gardens. The lack of life sends waves of agony through the area.

Heracles rushes against the wall, minding his hands from the sharp barbed wire covering the metal construct, craning his head up, an attempt to see beyond the artificial monster.

  
“Dimitar!” He cried, his voice wavering a bit. And as if God he had sent him, Heracles spots a young man with hair black as the night creeping closer and closer to the border.

Dimitar’s green eyes were solemn and empty, so cold that if looks could kill, Heracles would have been impaled on the spot. Multiple times. A reflection of his own, Heracles smirked. As it seems, this entire period didn’t kill only Heracles inside.

Dimitar climbs up the curtain, avoiding the barbed wire like a master, and stands on it, pushing himself up to look at the Greek man from above, like a predator hunting its prey. He squinted at the sight of Heracles, his pursed lips quickly morphing into a resentful scowl.

“What do you want, Heracles?” He snarled, his gloved hands tightening around the metal he was supporting himself in. “Is it about my sister again? I told you I don’t care--”

  
“I don’t give a fuck about Vardarska,” Heracles hissed, annoyed just at the mere mention of this girl’s name. “I can’t be bothered all the time with her and Sadik.”

  
Dimitar rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply at the response. “Then, you better have a good reason for calling me here, Gŭrtsiya.”

  
Heracles felt his world shrink for a moment. How was he supposed to say what he had in mind? He had no reason to trust Dimitar after all the wars and fighting, and even less with his thoughts about Miroslav. He gulped down all shame and continued.

“Have you seen Miroslav lately?”

  
Dimitar’s eyes lost their emptiness for a moment, to be replaced with a cheeky glint and a playful smile that sparked new life in the nation’s eyes. He let out a chuckle as he leaned away from the wall.

“Yeah, in fact, he used to come in and out of Ivan’s house often. Though after the split in 1948, I saw him less and less often, until he stopped coming.”  
  
Dimitar rested a hand on his chin and continued. “Now I try to keep in touch with him, but he doesn’t seem too happy at the moment. A bit stressed, I’d say. Why? Are you interested?”

  
“I haven’t seen Mirko since 1945.” Heracles tried to hide the pain in his voice. The pain of missing him. The pain of loss, of separation. The thoughts that seized his brain.

  
Dimitar blinked. “How come? I thought he supported you during your little civil war or something. That’s why he didn’t build the Iron Curtain here, he was convinced you’d join the Union.”

  
“I wasn’t on the side that he favoured. Didn’t you know Dimitar? You supported the same side as he did.”

  
“I was only informed my government would support the Provisional government. I had no interest in your affairs, personally.”

  
“I was fighting for the _king_.”

Dimitar’s eyes widened. Dangerously, even. Heracles feared the man had suffered a stroke.  
  
“You…? The King?” He stuttered, words forcing themselves out of his throat. His finger pointed at Heracles, almost as if he wanted to mark him as a traitor. “I thought you defied the kings! You’d support the people!”

“I had no choice- Rose was there all the time--”

  
Dimitar’s eyes boiled. If betrayal had a color, it’d be the color that his eyes took upon hearing this. “So you became a lapdog for your nobles.”

Heracles didn’t reply. He only hung his head in shame. Fuck, he has told himself these things much earlier than Dimitar did, but it hurt so much more when someone like him said these. Moral superiority, perhaps. Or maybe Dimitar had too many expectations for Heracles, which he then let down.  
That only twisted the knife.

  
“No wonder Miroslav doesn’t want to see you again,” Dimitar hissed, spitting acid instead of words. Acid that burnt so deep, into the broken bones of a man who was patient for too long. “You disgusting American pawn. I’m done with you.”  
  
With that, Dimitar threw himself off the gate, landing gracefully on his feet, and disappearing into the horizon, leaving Heracles alone, with the song of angels and demons ringing into his ears. Guilt piling up to him, pain searing through the body. Lord, save him. He had planted the Flower of Evil, and now it bloomed through his body.

The pain was excruciating. The pain of truth hurt more, stung more. Miroslav wanted _**nothing** _to do with him. The moments they spent together were nothing, all scattered within toxic air, burnt through distrust.   
He was gone. Heracles was hanging on by threads of hope or hopelessness, it was all the same.  
  
The alluring memory of Miroslav’s lingering touch, Heracles felt it like a wildfire as his hands caressed his own, cupped his face and pulled him in a kiss that froze time around them.

  
  
  


Now it was all smoke in the wind.  
Heracles’ knees gave way to the ground, sinking him to the ground near the gate.  
And for once, Heracles allowed himself a guilty pleasure. He allowed his voice to be reduced to a wail, a cry that would tear the heavens and hells alike.  
He let the tears run hot down his face, his hands pull on dark hair until he rips them off the skull, nails dug on soft flesh. Until there’s no place where Miroslav touched, that will not be purged in blood.

* * *

_  
21 April 1967,  
_ _Athens, Greece_

  
  
  
  


The deed was done. Night spread across the country like a wildfire.  
The colonels had seized control of the land of light, and now Heracles would be their new lapdog. As he had served the King and Prime Minister before.  
  
The Man on the Moon, formerly known as Alfred F. Jones to Heracles’ mind, had been behind this. He said it himself, as he sat alongside the new dictator and his sidekicks. Heracles blocked out the reasons the young man provided on his speech.  
  
All that echoed in his mind was a single simple thought, boiled in venom. “ _You chose this._ ”  
  
  
The condescending smirk on the Man’s face taunted Heracles more. The way the dictator addressed Heracles elicited nothing but shivers up his spine.  
  
“Mr. Karpusi, representative of Hellas,” He said, wrapping his arms around Heracles’ shoulder gently, as if he was made of feathers. “You’re but a patient, with your foot on a cast. Under my regency, we’ll pray your recovery is smooth and you need no cast again.”  
Heracles’ shoulders were seized, and the dictator pulled him closer, his eyes forced to look at the new dictator’s blazing glare.

  
“Mr. Karpusi, God be with us, I will turn you into a Phoenix, like we Greeks have been always. We always rise from the ashes. This is no different. Hellas is being reborn. You will accomplish greater things. You will live forever.”

The words resonated within Heracles’ soul. The Phoenix, the ancient bird of legend, allegedly sent by God to establish the land of Hellas… The Man in the Moon claimed he only wanted the best for him. It was his only choice; he claimed.  
  
Heracles didn’t care. He opened Pandora’s box, and the darkness spilled out. Uncertainty that choked Heracles would soon choke the citizens as well. _More blood on the streets_.  
  
  
  
“But _you_ chose it, Gretsiya!” Ivan’s voice resounded in his ears, as if he was speaking next to his ears. “You chose to side with the American!”  
  


“ _You_ chose it, Greece!” Rose’s voice taunted him from behind.  
  


“It was _your_ choice, Ellada.” Iakovos’ voice spoke from above, as if it was a holy voice.  
  


“ _You_ made your choice, Heracles.” Stern voice of Miroslav overshadowed the rest. Blocked the taunting of various accents. Swallowed Heracles whole.

  
  


Heracles smiled. He didn’t know if he was sane or dreaming any longer. Reality felt foreign to men who suffered through all. Embrace the night, embrace the dictator, embrace the American’s will, Heracles reminded himself, as he took a deep breath.

“ _I_ chose this.” He declared.

  
  


Heracles liked to view himself as a man of faith. And exactly because he was a man of faith, he fell for temptations beyond mortal expectations. Like how Eve was deceived into eating the apple by the Snake, Heracles was deceived into his position. 

With nothing but blood and regrets on his back, Heracles embraces the night and silence. He laid his head on his Eden, closing his eyes, longing for a well-deserved nap, nearing the Flower of Evil.

The Flower he himself planted. 

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes!
> 
> 1\. The setting of the two-shot is in 1970. During the periods of 1967-1974, Greece was under a strict far-right dictatorship after a coup d'etat in 1967. Said coup d'etat was supported by the USA.
> 
> 2\. The dictatorship promoted ideas of xenophobia, picturing Greece as the pinnacle of human civilization and the rest of the world being jealous of the achievements of Greek history. Under this regime, there was rampant censorship and no freedom of speech, and various restrictions, such as the number of people you can invite to your home, and the time you can leave the house.
> 
> 3\. The censorship deprived many poets, authors, journalists, professors and other intellectuals to share their thoughts or political opinions. There were no civil rights and no press freedom. Many people accused of working against the regime were tortured, exiled and even killed at some cases. Some people refer to this era as the "Time of Darkness".
> 
> 4\. The chapter focuses more on the Greek Civil War, a sort of prelude to the inevitable dictatorship. During the Civil War, many unspeakable acts happened, ranging from killing Albanians in Epirus to executing innocent civilians who had left-leaning ideals. The conflict was between basically the Kingdom of Greece, supported by the UK and USA, and the Provisional Democratic Government, supported by Albania, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. 
> 
> 5\. The man in the moon referenced many times in the fic.... is a surprise for the next chapter ;)


End file.
